A Nudge in the Right Direction
by Ron Weasley2
Summary: Her words held his life in them, and yet she said them as if they were no more consequential than discussing the weather.


A/N: At last count, there is exactly 9 days until Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban comes out in U.S. theatres. To tide me over, I have written this piece of fuzzy fluff I hope you will enjoy. :)

            "I'll be back in an hour or so, me and Hermione have to do our patrols."

            "All right, mate," Harry answered absently. "Are you going to tell her tonight?"

            "No."

            It was a sort of little joke the two of them had. Every time Ron had to go on patrols with Hermione, Harry would ask him if he was finally going to tell Hermione how he felt about her.

            And the answer was always no.

            No matter what Harry and Ginny—actually, no matter what the whole of Gryffindor tower thought—said to him, Ron would never believe that Hermione Granger, someone who had intelligence, beauty, and her pick of anyone (with the exception of the Slytherins) would want _him_.

            "You know, sooner or later, some other guy's going to ask her out and you'll be kicking yourself for not having done it sooner," Harry advised.

            "I'll take that into consideration," Ron said sarcastically, leaving the common room. He walked down to the entrance hall, which was where he and Hermione usually met to start their patrols.

            The seconds ticked by, and Ron's palms grew sweaty as he waited nervously for her to arrive.

            Somehow, he always worried about Hermione more than anyone else. Sure, he worried about his family, although he considered Harry to be more like his brother than anything, especially Ginny. But Hermione had held some sort of special place inside him before he even thought of her…like…that. Ever since the first time Draco Malfoy sneered at her and Ron had nearly kicked his bloody arse, he'd taken special care of her, even if she didn't know it. And really, that wasn't important. Her knowing that he loved her wasn't nearly as important as making sure that she was safe.

            Nothing was.

            "Ron?"

            He spun around and his breath caught in his throat.

            It wasn't that she'd taken special pains with her appearance. Her hair was tied up, with a few strands framing her face. Her robes seemed to hang just right on her, and her cheeks were rosy.

            He could have kissed her. He wanted to, but somehow he didn't think she would go for that.

            He settled for a smile.

            "Hi Hermione," he said. "Ready to go?"

            "I'm so sorry I was late, but I was researching something in the library and I lost track of time," she explained as they ascended the staircase, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her hair. "Were you waiting for very long?"

            "Not too long," he lied. In actuality, he had no idea how long he'd waited, but it had seemed like an eternity.

            Two hours passed by with relative ease. He'd never admit to anyone, especially Harry, but just being with Hermione was enough for him. Not as much anymore, though. He wanted to tell her—no one would ever understand how badly, but the vision of her rejection had haunted him so often that he didn't think he had the courage to actually say the words to her.

            Besides, how could he do that, knowing it could well end their friendship? And how would it affect Harry if they ever did end up together?

            "Ron, you haven't said anything for a while," Hermione stopped walking. "What's wrong?"

            "What? Uh—nothing," he stammered, feeling his ears turn beet red. "Nothing's wrong, I was just—uh—thinking about the—er—Transfiguration essay."

            "Really?" she asked, looking pleased. He felt bad for lying to her, but wasn't about to say "I was thinking about how it would feel to be your boyfriend". "I really thought that the choice of material was—"

            He tuned her out again without meaning to. It was just so easy to lose himself in the sound of her voice, and the very feeling of her at his side. It was a tortured form of paradise that he'd been living in for three years.

            Before he realized it, they were at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, and Hermione gave the password as the Fat Lady's portrait swung open. He stumbled in after her. Being around her felt like some sort of drug. She had him completely in her grasp…and yet she had no idea.

            The common room was empty, the fire burning half-heartedly. It cast dancing shadows on the couches and chairs, and Ron looked at Hermione in the flickering light and had to swallow a lump in his throat.

            Stupid bloody hormones.

            She glanced at him shyly and he, once again, had to resist the urge to kiss her.

            "So…" he said quietly. "How have you been?"

            She laughed. "I've been well, Ron, but haven't we just spend the last three months living with one another?"

            He began to twist his hands nervously and his damned ears began to turn red. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

            "Ron, is something wrong?" she asked seriously, meeting his gaze and turning his knees to jelly. "You've been very quiet all night."

            He cleared his throat. "Um…well…I…er…"

            "Thanks for the clarification," she said sarcastically, sweeping a few strands of her golden-brown hair away from her face. "I'm really not kidding here, though, I've been your best friend for six years, and I know when something's bothering you. So what is it?"

            "I'm in love with you," he blurted out.

            _You stupid, bloody git. You idiot._

            Those were the only two rational thoughts running through his mind as he yelled out the thing that would inevitably break up their friendship.

            "You—you're what?" she asked breathlessly, obviously caught completely off guard.

            He wondered if it was too late to tell her it was a mistake, that she had misheard and he had obviously said "what did you have for dinner?", and that he was going to go to bed now.

            Probably.

            "I'm in love with you."

            And his voice just _had_ to crack as he was confessing the most important thing he'd ever confess to another human being in his entire life. Because that was the luck Ron Weasley had.

            She stared at her shoes for what seemed like ages. Ron grew increasingly and increasingly angrier at himself until he was seriously considering running to McGonagall and begging to use her Time Turner.

            What were the odds that _that_ would work?

            "Listen, I…really shouldn't have said that," Ron slipped past her. It was unlikely that she would have heard him because he whispered it. As soon as she looked like she was ready to respond, he did the only thing he could think of.

            He ran to his room and hid under the covers.

The next day, Ron woke up and it took a second for him to realize just why he felt so bloody horrible. Then he remembered, but it was the worst sort of feeling he'd ever had. Images slowly flashed in his mind: Hermione, as they met before patrols…walking with her throughout Hogwarts…the dark common room…the look on her face when he told her…running away from the inevitable rejection.

            He groaned and slumped back onto his bed.

            Harry pulled open the curtains, nearly blinding Ron with the bright morning sunlight. He groaned again and pelted Harry with a pillow.

            "Thanks a lot, mate," Harry said with mock-hurt, throwing the pillow back onto his bed. "Here I was, just trying to make sure you didn't miss breakfast, and you decide to potentially ruin my skills as a Seeker."

            "I told her last night."

            "You WHAT?" Harry nearly exploded. "You didn't even wake me up to tell me?"  
            "She didn't even say anything," Ron explained, feeling dead inside. It was possibly the worst feeling he'd ever experienced. "I told her…and she just stared at the ground."

            "So what did you do after that?" Harry asked, trying to pat his hair down.

            "I…"

            "You what?"

            "I ran."

            "You ran."

            "Yes."

            "How stupid are you?"

            "I'd say pretty bloody stupid," Ron said, feeling a wave of disgust sweep over him. "What am I going to do, Harry? I see her _every day_. We're in the same bloody house."

            "In your case, there's only one thing to do," Harry said seriously, leaning against Ron's bed post.

            "What is it?" Ron asked eagerly. If anyone could help him, it was Harry.

            "Promise to give me a five-minute head start after I tell you that I asked your sister to be my girlfriend last night."

            Harry darted out of the room.

            "OK…" Ron said miserably. Then suddenly, an unmistakable emotion took over and he ran out of the room.  

            Days passed by in the same fashion. Ron would wait until breakfast was nearly over or skive it off completely (by this, he meant going to the kitchens to snitch food from the house elves), then go to lessons and sit as far away from Hermione as possible, eat lunch as quickly as humanly possible, the same for dinner, and hole himself up in his room for any free time he had.

            He had nearly pounded Harry into the ground after that little incident concerning Ginny, but he'd calmed down after being restrained by Seamus and Dean, and hearing Harry's stuttered confession and being yelled at by Ginny.

            But nothing, nothing could take his mind off of what had irrevocably ruined his and Hermione's friendship. His bloody stupidity. Where had he gotten the idea that Hermione might have accepted? He was the last boy, and the second youngest in the Weasley family, which might have produced outstanding wizards and witches (although he wasn't one of them), but was still poor and looked down upon. He wasn't good at much of anything that could be of value in the future, and certainly nothing that Hermione would have respected or admired. In short, he was completely worthless, and he was stupid to have thought that she would have returned any sort of feeling for him at all.

            It was in this state that Harry found him on a Saturday after dinner, completely and utterly mired in self-pity.

            "You look a mess," Harry commented helpfully. Ron glared at him.

            "Why don't we go out and do a bit of flying?" he asked, clearly trying his hardest to get Ron out of their room.

            "I don't know, Harry…"

            "Come on," he wheedled. "What harm would it do? You have to do something, and chances are that Hermione _won't_ be on the pitch."

            The man had a point.

            "All right," Ron gave in reluctantly.

            "Great! I'll meet you out there."

            Ron dragged himself out of bed and took a quick shower before throwing on some clothes and walking tiredly out of the common room.

            He had just grabbed his Cleansweep and stepped out onto the pitch when he saw her. Hermione, looking utterly confused and uncomfortable, but as beautiful as usual.

            He knew immediately that Harry had set him up.

            Prat.

            He walked uncertainly over to her and tried to look confident, confident in only one thing: that he looked like an idiot.

            "Hermione?" he asked, his breath hitching in his throat. "What are you doing here?"

            "We have to talk," she said, avoiding his gaze. "About…what…"

            "What I said," he interrupted.

            She nodded.

            "It's true, first of all," he wondered where he was getting the nerve. "And second, I know you don't…well…return my…feelings, and I'm sorry I ran. But I had to get used to it. And Hermione…I don't want to lose our friendship."

            "I do," she said simply.

            He stared at her in shock. Was this really happening?

            "Ron, the thing is, you never really let me answer you when you told me," she seemed to be gathering courage and speed. "I mean, I guess you thought you did, but you told me and then ran away, as if you'd regretted it or something. And after that, when you avoided me, what was I supposed to think? All I could discern from your behavior was that you'd obviously made a mistake in telling me and you were trying to find out how to take it back. And when Harry told me that I had to talk to you, I knew it was true."

            "Hermione—I didn't—I mean…"

            "I know now that you most likely meant what you said," she acted as if all of this should have been obvious to him. "And I want you to know that I love you, too."

            Her words held his life in them, and yet she said them as if they were no more consequential than discussing the weather. He wanted to jump for joy, kiss her, and whoop at the same time.

            He settled for looking politely surprised.

            "You—you do?"

            She nodded. "I have, you know, ever since third year. Amid our quarreling about Scabbers and Crookshanks and Harry, I felt myself falling further and further, but I was helpless to stop it. In fourth year, when I told you to ask me before someone else did, I honestly thought you'd take the hint, Ron. Although I realized soon after that that you simply didn't want to, didn't feel the same way, or didn't take the hint. Fifth year, well, that was more for Harry than anything, and now I'm standing here in front of you, wondering only one thing."

            "What?" Ron croaked.

            "Are you going to stand there like an idiot, or are you going to kiss me?"


End file.
